


A Complete Joke

by andromedacrawley



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Depression, F/M, Heartbreak, I know it says Matthew’s thoughts but what it really means is all of Matthew’s angsty thoughts, Romance, So much angst, Temporarily Disabled Character, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25466605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromedacrawley/pseuds/andromedacrawley
Summary: “There was still a part of Matthew that couldn't comprehend what had happened. He had been so certain they were meant to be in one another's lives, as if fate had intervened and allowed him the opportunity to stumble into Downton Abbey and into her world...”An exploration of Matthew’s thoughts throughout the series.
Relationships: Mary Crawley/Matthew Crawley, Matthew Crawley/Lavinia Swire, Richard Carlisle/Mary Crawley (mentioned)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

Matthew collapsed on his bed, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Crawley House still didn't feel like home quite yet and Matthew doubted he would sleep well tonight... but a new home was the least of his concerns.

God, he had been a fool. When he had met Cousin Robert in London, the man had mentioned each of his daughters by name at different points. After Matthew had made a remark on his interest in architecture, Lord Grantham had said, "You'll have to ask my daughter Edith to show you around the local churches. She's quite knowledgeable."

His daughter, Sybil, was reportedly helpful as well. "She's a sweet girl. She isn't out yet, but..." and that was when Matthew realized what he was doing: he was planning on shoving one of these poor young ladies at him.

Mary was the last one mentioned, but her name was brought up most frequently. In their brief meeting, Matthew managed to learn that she was the eldest daughter, had been engaged to the previous heir (well, the previous heir's son, who would have been an heir as well... it was all very confusing), and was an avid rider. "Do you ride?" Robert had asked, clearly interested.

Matthew was somewhat annoyed. "I've gone, once or twice, but I'm not much one for hunting." A couple of his friends from university were like Lord Grantham and his kind of people, living on lavish country estates. He could count on one hand the number of times he had been invited to such places for sociable affairs rather than business.

Robert seemed disappointed. "Well, if you ever take an interest, I'm sure Mary would be willing to oblige you. She's very good with the horses and she could show you parts of the estate... I think it would be a more pleasant experience than walking about with me."

Matthew had felt nauseated at the thought at the time... but now he was fairly certain that Mary wouldn't be willing to oblige any of his requests any time soon.

 _Mary_. It was a common name... he could think of over half a dozen Marys in his acquaintance right now. These girls of Lord Grantham's had been faceless entities in his mind, each with their own unique attributes, yet he had no real way of ascertaining what they might look like. Being the fool he was, Matthew had pictures a girl named Mary to be a plain and ordinary figure, someone only remarkable in that she was the daughter of an Earl and was the eldest daughter.

How wrong he had been.

He had just finished telling his mother about Lord Grantham's dastardly plan to play matchmaker when the new butler announced that Lady Mary Crawley was gracing them with her presence.

When Matthew had turned around, his mouth had fallen open. Standing before him was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. Her handsome face was the sort of thing that inspired myths like that of Helen... in fact, the longer he looked at her, the more convinced he was that she was Aphrodite incarnate...

Dressed in her riding gear, he could see Lady Mary was a tall woman with alabaster skin and dark eyes. Tendrils of brunette hair hung near her ears and Matthew wanted so badly to touch them. She wasn't the meek thing he had envisioned, instead a commanding presence. Though she wasn't loud, she demanded the attention of everyone in the room. Matthew felt like his eyes were magnets, drawn to her.

But when she spoke, his delusions had vanished. While almost impossibly lovely, he saw she was a human as he was, complete with a myriad of complex emotions just like himself. She was exceedingly polite, relaying her mother's invitation for dinner. When his own asked if she would stay with them for tea, Matthew found himself hoping she would say yes.

"Oh no," Lady Mary replied, "You're far too busy. And I wouldn't want to push in." The last remark was directed at him, a coldness in her dark eyes before she turned around, leaving him behind.

The spell was broken. Matthew was returned to his own body, gaping after her, knowing she must have heard what he said... and no wonder, when he had practically been shouting it! He didn't need to glance over at his mother to know she was disappointed in him. Before he could contemplate it further, Matthew was running out the door.

"Lady Mary," he called out to her after she had remounted her horse, "I hope you didn't misunderstand me. I was only joking." It sounded a flimsy excuse to his own ears and the second it left his mouth.

"Of course," acknowledged Lady Mary, though she still sounded vexed and irritated. "And I agree. The whole thing is a complete joke."

With that, she rode off, disappearing from his line of vision. There was nothing Matthew could do but stand there, watching after her, wondering why his chest felt so hollow all of a sudden. When he walked back into the house, he felt like only half the person he had been before.

Dinner that night had been uncomfortable for a number of reasons. He and his mother were outsiders and they felt it. The idea of Matthew continuing his career was an anathema to the family (particularly Cousin Violet, who had asked him what a weekend was) and he was subjected to countless jabs by Mary. She mocked him for his lack of knowledge, his upbringing, nearly everything she possibly could.

Matthew knew that he should dislike her. She had gone out her way to be cruel and hurtful... and yet he couldn't. In a way, he felt sorry for her. What must it be like, to watch your family's ancestral home and mother's money passed along to an unknown cousin who had very little interest in the place? He understood her resentment of him and what he had said earlier had clearly made him an undesirable option for her... and no wonder.

What sort of chance did he stand at feasibly winning her heart? While he was not an unattractive man, Matthew knew he wasn't enough to turn her head. He considered himself to be a good man, ruled by his own philosophy, but he had repelled her earlier with his harsh words. The only thing he had going to him, in her opinion, would be his position... but Matthew didn't believe her shallow enough for that. Besides, when he married, he wanted it to be for love.

It took him a moment to realize what he was contemplating. He buried his face in his hands, groaning. Why was he entertaining thoughts of marriage with this woman, when she didn't want him and he didn't want to marry in? He didn't even know her, for heaven's sake, and yet he wanted her so badly— not solely in a carnal manner, as nobody deserved to be used and cast aside. For the first time since learning he was the heir to the Earl of Grantham, he could envision fulfilling the role. And Mary— Mary could reign at his side...

 _Get ahold of yourself,_ he chastened himself, and readied himself for bed, already undressed and tucked under the covers before Molesley arrived.

* * *

Matthew, it seemed, was not the only one had been thinking of Greek mythology of late.

"I've been studying the story of Andromeda, do you know it?" Mary was looking directly at him, addressing him the first time that evening.

As a matter of fact, Matthew was familiar with it. It didn't stop him from asking, "Why?"

Mary clearly thought he was uninformed, as she launched into the story. "Her father was King Cepheus, whose country was being ravaged by storms, and in the end, he decided the only way to appease the gods was to sacrifice his eldest daughter to a hideous sea monster." Matthew suddenly understood why she had decided to tell the story. No doubt she could find comparisons between the plight of a princess and herself... though he couldn't help but be annoyed at the idea of being likened to a sea monster— and a hideous one, at that. "So, they chained her naked to a rock—"

Matthew couldn't believe what she was saying. He wondered if she had any idea what sort of images she was conjuring in his mind, already having aligned herself with Andromeda... but considering they were at a family dinner, it was easy to pull his mind away from those thoughts, especially as Cousin Robert choked and Cousin Violet let out a nervous chuckle. "Really? Mary, we'll all need our smelling salts in a minute," she tittered.

He was grateful she had spoken, giving him time to recover from the shock. It meant that he sounded relatively composed when he said, "But the sea monster didn't get her, did he?" He was aware all eyes were on them— the elder generation, no doubt, lamenting their perfect union of the eldest daughter and the new heir.

"No. Just when it seemed he was the only solution to her father's problems, she was rescued."

"By Perseus," recounted Matthew, recalling the story well.

"That's right," responded Mary, flustered now. Mathew resisted smirking, feeling it was rather bad mannered to gloat over having gained the upper hand. Still, he couldn't help but feel pleased... he had proven there was more to him than being a solicitor. "Perseus, son of a god." Mary met his eyes, leveling him a challenge. "Rather more fitting, wouldn't you say?"

Seeing as he was the sea monster in her narrative, Matthew wondered who Perseus was. A sting of jealousy festered within him, though Matthew knew it was illogical. He barely knew her, she clearly despised him... surely it should be promising for them both that she already had a respectable suitor lined up, one who (based on her implications) understood their way of life more. Still, even now, as she called him hideous, he couldn't shake the idea of her being his wife from his mind.

"That depends," he finally replied tightly, bitterness seeping into his voice despite his best efforts to contain it. "I'd have to know more about the princess and the sea monster in question."

 _You're a fool,_ Matthew told himself, still tasting that jealousy. He punched his pillow, wondering why he couldn't sleep. She should be of little consequence to him...

And yet she wasn't. Truthfully, he sympathized with her. He didn't blame her for resenting him... if only she could view him as an ally instead of her enemy.

* * *

The cool night's air did nothing to sober him up. The evening had seemed so promising... For once, Matthew was the most appealing choice at dinner. Sir Anthony was at least Robert's age and the man Cousin Robert and Cousin Cora were trying to hoist upon Mary.

It seemed unfair to Matthew, in many respects, that this was the life she was resigned to. Over the past few months, Mary had softened. She was no longer cool and brusque with him, even sometimes appearing to enjoy his company. She was remarkably candid with him, laughed at his attempts at jokes, and sought him out from time to time.

It hadn't taken Matthew long to realize he had fallen in love with her. He noticed it around the time his heart thudded in his chest after she graced him with one of her rare her brilliant smiles. He dreamed of her dark eyes, his fingers tangled in her long hair...

There was far more to her than her beauty, of course. Mary was intelligent, possessing a quick wit. Matthew has learned that it was best to be on her good side, for she rarely directed her ire at those cared for. She had a sense of humor as well, sometimes making an off handed remark that made him laugh so hard there were tears in his eyes... and when he would catch her watching him with that strange look in her eyes and that smile, that look that almost made him dare to believe she might feel the same way—

Matthew shook his head. He had been wrong. He had been terribly, terribly wrong.

She had given him that look again at dinner. They had been forced to hide their laughter after Sir Anthony exclaimed, "Oh, good _God_!" after swallowing a mouthful of salty pudding. Matthew doubted she had ever looked more beautiful to him, a wide smile and shaking shoulders, the happiest he had ever seen her... All evening, she had been talking to him, genuinely interested in what he had to say, voicing her irritation with Sir Anthony...

"I've been waiting for you," she said, beaming as she approached him. She had no idea the way those words caused his heart to flutter... "I found a book over here and I think it's just the thing to catch your interest."

"Oh, really?" She had never been this overt... Already he was picturing the rest of the evening, sequestered in a corner with her, peering over a book, fingers brushing together...

Only to come to the unwelcome realization Mary wasn't addressing him at all. She was speaking to none other than Sir Anthony, who replied, "I'm intrigued. What is it to be?"

Matthew was as still as a statue, watching as the woman he had grown to love said, "Well, I was looking in the library and...

Edith tried to join in the conversation, to no avail, and Mary and Anthony kept talking, but Matthew hadn't heard a word since understanding what was unfolding. He felt sick to his stomach, tears already burning behind his eyes. He felt a fool; probably because he was one. It was times like these he despised being so sensitive— he needed to retain his composure...

Had she done this intentionally? Going on and on about what a dullard Sir Anthony was, making him think for once that maybe he wasn't so unappealing an option, only to yank it away at the last minute? He didn't believe her capable of such cruelty, in spite of the most hurtful things she had said to him arriving for Downton.

Matthew hadn't even noticed Edith coming to his side until she said, rather dryly, "It seems we've both been thrown over for a bigger prize."

 _A bigger prize..._ was that what Sir Anthony was? Obviously he wasn't a particularly interesting fellow, especially not to Mary, but he had a better understanding of this way of life than Matthew. He had been raised into it... Clearly, for as much time as she enjoyed spending with him, Mary wasn't about to let him believe for one moment he was the one she preferred in regards to a husband.

Unable to stay here any longer, nearly at his breaking point, Matthew said, "Heavens, is that the time?"

Edith seemed distressed. "You're not going?"

"The truth is, my head's splitting," he lied, inventing wildly. His stomach felt sick, churning with each glance he stole towards Mary and Sir Anthony, a painful reminder of the fact he would always be second best. "I don't want to spoil the party, so I'll slip away. Would you make my excuses to your parents?"

He barely waited for a reply... he wasn't sure if he ever received one, to be perfectly honest. He made excuses to William, insisting that there was no need to trouble Branson for the car when he could walk home.

Mother was still awake, much to his chagrin. He had been hoping slip in undetected, not in the mood to talk to anyone.

"I was expecting you later than this. I'll tell Molesley to lock up," she said, far too cheerily for his liking... though he was hardly going to hold it against her. It wasn't her fault he had been too wrapped up in his own fantasies to separate fiction from reality.

"Thanks," he said, an answer that was decidedly less warm than the one he would normally give her. "Goodnight, Mother." He began hurrying up the stairs, desperate for this night to end.

Oblivious to her son's distress, his mother asked, "How was your evening? Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Quite," lied Matthew... though it wasn't a complete lie. Not really. The first half had gone well enough. "The thing is, just for a moment, I thought..." _I thought that Mary loved me, just as I love her. That she could see me as more than the cousin who will inherit and see me for myself... that she could care for me._ "Never mind what I thought. I was wrong. Goodnight."

After waiting for Molesley, Matthew closed his eyes, reigning back his tears. He wished he could be as strong as her, never succumbing to her emotions or bursting into tears in grief. He had heard whispers around Downton Abbey that she had never cried for Patrick Crawley, the man she had been engaged to. Though some might think her cold and heartless for such a thing, Matthew rather admired her. He wished he could master his emotions... yet a tear ran down his face regardless.

* * *

Though he may be a lawyer, Matthew was a man who sought for peace most of all. While he never backed down from a confrontation, he never instigated a fight. Diplomatic solutions were always what he looked for.

So the fact he was planning on signing up to go to war in only a few days time was something that ought to surprise him. Matthew always considered himself patriotic but this was born out of purely selfish motivations. Going to war meant leaving her and Matthew welcomed the opportunity with open arms.

It wasn't that he wished to part from her. No— if Matthew could be guaranteed a lifetime at Mary's side, no one would ever be able to convince him to leave; it was simply the fact such a thing was impossible.

He had proposed to her. It was late at night, he was high off the kiss they had shared over a plate of sandwiches. The mere touch of her lips against his had been pure ecstasy, melting away the pain in his hand and the scars on his heart. Her enthusiasm, her coy admission that she had a crush on him, the hidden jealousy in her voice when she admitted she thought Sybil was attracted to him... That evening had been the best one of his life.

He hadn't been deterred when she hadn't answered immediately. No— she was under no obligations and marriage was a heady decision. After all, it was choice they would live with for the rest of their lives. It was only natural Mary would need the time to consider it carefully, especially since they had only just properly admitted the depth of their feelings towards one another.

But soon Matthew's patience began to wear thin. A month passed. Preparations began for Sybil's upcoming Season in London. "Matthew, I cannot think about it right now!" Mary had exclaimed, lines appearing on her forehead after he had caught her alone. "Mama needs my help and I am under so much pressure—"

"I'm sorry," he apologized immediately, feeling ungentlemanly. "Of course you need more time. I wasn't thinking." He met her brown eyes, lost in them before asking, "Do you forgive me?"

A coy smile played on her lips. "Well," she said, her tongue farting out to lick them. He was entranced by it, not noticing how close they were now standing, "I suppose I can." Moments later, she was kissing him and Matthew could no longer form any coherent thoughts.

She kept pushing it off, further and further into the distance. "I'll have an answer for you as soon as all this over," promised Mary on the balcony, their fingers laced together as they overlooked the garden at the family's London residence. "Once we are back at Downton."

"I'll hold you to that," Matthew had replied, mostly teasingly. "I'm rather impatient to get things settled... and to make you my wife."

"I may need more convincing before I accept you," Mary told him playfully, tilting her head up.

Matthew already knew what that meant; he swore there were times he could read her thoughts already, as if she were a part of himself existing outside his body. Matthew leaned down, pulling her in for a kiss. One hand fell to her slim waist, the other cradling her face. He wished that he could do this everyday, to be able wake up each morning next to her, to wake her up this way...

"There," he said breathlessly when they pulled apart... He could feel her heart beating inside her rib cage, just as erratically as his. Looking at her, no one would know how overwhelmed she was... unless one understood what that look in her eyes was. "I'll say I've convinced you."

Mary smiled slowly. "Convince me again."

Matthew wasted no time doing just that.

But then Mary stayed in London whilst her family returned to Downton. He waited for her, eagerly awaiting her arrival... then the pregnancy was announced. He wondered if she knew before her family returned or not... but then she came home, insisting she still needed more time to make up her mind.

It became clear to him— he was the means to an end to her. Mary desired wealth, a position... love meant little to her, in grand scheme of things.

He snorted, laying down on his bed. Had she ever said the words? _I love you._ Now that he thought of it, she hadn't. He had been relying upon insinuations and subtleties, when he might have spared himself some pain by looking at the full picture.

He had cornered her at the garden party, retracting the proposal. Maybe it was especially cruel of him, considering she had lost a sibling, but Matthew had no intentions of ever crossing paths with her after this day, so it was best to make a clean break now so he could start afresh in Manchester as soon as possible.

"Would you have stayed?" Mary had asked, "if I'd accepted you?" Much to his utter surprise, she was very near tears, just as close as he. He had never seen her so vulnerable, never seen her anything less than unruffled and unbothered. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe it was because she hated the idea of losing him.

"Of course," he whispered. How could she think otherwise? Hadn't he made his feelings for her perfectly clear? There was no possible way she deny his devotion to her, not when he had made his intentions so plain.

Her voice cracked as she said, "So I've ruined everything."

Matthew was momentarily stunned, looking at the girl before him— for now, she truly seemed just that. A girl. Matthew was reminded by just how young she was in that moment, no longer that ethereal force of nature from the myths. She was a young woman, one who had been dealt an unfair hand in life.

As bruised and as battered as his heart was, Matthew knew in that moment that he would never be able to hate her. He would never even dislike her— For as long as he lived, Mary Crawley would be a part of him. No matter where life took him, a piece of her would exist in his heart. She would always haunt his dreams, be the first person he thought of when he faced the harsh, unforgiving day, the woman he would compare all the rest to.

Matthew would love Mary forever.

"You've shown me I've been living in a dream," he told her, close to tears himself, "and it's time to return to real life. Wish me luck with it, Mary. God knows I wish the best for you."

He meant it, with every fiber of his being. He didn't want her to be sad— it was the last thing he wanted. The only small comfort he derived from knowing his love surpassed any she might harbor for him was that it would take her a short time to get over him. She would meet someone wonderful, someone equally matched to her in every way. It would happen quickly too; Mary was a truly remarkable woman and if any man couldn't see that, he didn't deserve her in the first place.

He had been ready to leave, to put this unfortunate chapter to bed, when Robert announced the news of war. As sobering as it was, Matthew felt as though all his problems were solved. There would be no uncomfortable conversations about returning to Manchester, Mother would not need to leave the hospital... He would go fight and leave all this behind him.

Mother had sensed his melancholy mood and hadn't talked about it... much. She had tried to insult Mary, something about her being a snob, but Matthew cut in with, "Mother, I know you are only trying to help, but insulting Mary won't make me care for her any less." At the astonished look in her eyes, he drew in a shuddery breath and said, "It wasn't meant to be. I see that now. And I don't want you to say anything ungenerous towards her."

It was a lie. There was still a part of Matthew that couldn't comprehend what had happened. He had been so certain they were meant to be in one another's lives, as if fate had intervened and allowed him the opportunity to stumble into Downton Abbey and into her world...

But it was time to accept the truth and stop living in fantasies.

A complete joke. That's what she had called the idea of them. But Matthew wasn't laughing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In spite of it being finals week, my muse has found the motivation to finish up/polish up some of my smaller WIPs.
> 
> This story was just intended to be a one-shot but so many people reviewed on FF.net saying that they would like to see more of Matthew's thoughts throughout each season that I was motivated to do it. There will likely be a third part in the future but I have no idea when that will be. In the meantime, I certainly hope you enjoy this exploration of Matthew!
> 
> Quick warning for just some generally depressing thoughts, especially when he's at war and when he is wounded. I tried to stay away from ableist language but I didn't alter any of the dialogue that I took from the show.

_She sat by the window, gazing outside. When she noticed him, she rose to her feet. "There you are." She greeted him with a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "How was work?"_

" _Oh, the same as usual." Their fingers linked together instinctually, two halves of a whole rejoined at last. "How was your day?"_

" _Tiring," she said with a sigh, sitting back down in her chair, but her eyes never leaving him._

" _I'm sorry to hear that." He knelt down on the floor, knees sinking into the carpet as he stared up at her in awe. Like an unworthy mortal worshipping a goddess, he was in deference to her. "I had some plans for you... but we'll have to postpone."_

" _Don't be ridiculous." At once she was reaching for him, pulling him up, hands everywhere, her mouth pressed against his and inviting him._

" _Oh, Mary..."_

He awoke just then, staring up at the ceiling. The scent of mud and blood and death permeated the air, reminding him of just where he was.

Matthew sat up in his cot, back aching in protest. The sky was still dark and he could hear snoring from somewhere... but Matthew doubted he would be able to go back to sleep.

"For God's sakes," he muttered to himself, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, "You're engaged."

He hadn't seen Mary in over two years. His last memory of her was from that garden party. After witnessing the countless horrors that were commonplace on the battlefield, he bitterly regretted leaving things the way they had. Knowing their tearful parting was the last memory he had of her (and she of him) made him exceedingly melancholy, especially when death loomed over him constantly, tormenting him.

In that time between then and now, he had met someone new. Lavinia Swire was the daughter of a solicitor in London, a lovely, sweet woman who had lifted him out of his sorrows from the first moment they had made their acquaintance with one another. Matthew was relieved he had someone to return to in London, now having a more legitimate excuse to spend his leave there instead of concocting an excuse as to why he was unable to return to Downton.

He loved Lavinia. After that last day with Mary, he had felt as though he would be incapable of loving anyone again. He was pleased to have been wrong. Already he was looking forward to the end of the war, so that he could finally make Lavinia his and they could live out their lives together.

If only he could stop dreaming of Mary.

* * *

It had been ages since he had last occupied his bedroom at Crawley House, years stretching by since the last time he had laid in this very bed, questioning everything...

But he was doing it yet again.

He thought he had moved on. Thought that he had surpassed the need for Mary in his life. He had felt ready, confident to return to Downton Abbey with Lavinia at his side, eager to show her the place that would be their home...

But the moment his eyes had come to rest on Mary, he realized he had only been deluding himself.

She seemed softer now, any chill within her thawed away. Her brown eyes only held gentleness, even as they darted about in an effort not to linger on him for too long...

She was changed and yet still the same.

Matthew wondered if the same could be said of him, if his own eyes betrayed him. Could Mary see the men he had watched die? Could she know that he dreaded returning to France, seeing it only as hell on Earth but knowing it was duty to go back? Did she know how badly he wished he had never signed up, how if he had known what horrors would behold him that he would have stayed...?

Mary didn't see him as a soldier, though, when she greeted him. Just as Matthew, as if the old him stood there between them. It occurred to him, that Lavinia had never known Matthew Crawley, the solicitor, only having ever met Lieutenant Matthew Crawley. Could he still be the man he once was? He could, he was fairly certain, for Mary. He would cross the Earth more her, move mountains if he could...

But he wasn't hers and she wasn't his. There was no sense dwelling upon it.

Matthew sighed wearily, wishing it all could have been different. If she had accepted him, where would they be now? Would she be in Lavinia's place, worrying for him every night and counting down the days until the war ended so they could finally have the grandest wedding imaginable? Or would they be married already—

He could see it so clearly one would think it was reality. Instead of coming here as a guest, he would have come here each time he was given leave. Instead of laying in his old bed at Crawley House, he would stay and have a drink or two with Robert before climbing the stairs and joining Mary in her bed, her long hair let down for only him and her maid to see. He would hold her close on his arms, kiss her...

 _You're engaged to another woman,_ he reminded himself, jerked out of those daydreams. He felt ashamed, especially when he remembered Lavinia was in the same house. _Let her go._

—

The cold, unforgiving trenches felt less austere after the farewell at the station. Even now, on his stiff cot, Matthew could escape back home for a while. He could still her lips on his cheek, the warmth emanating from her body. That smile...

The only thing that would have made it better is if he could have kissed her in return, properly, just one last time. It would have made the possibility of dying less painful, knowing he could have tasted her lips again before succumbing. If he had moved his head at the right time... but he couldn't do that. Not to Lavinia. It wasn't right, to think such things, he knew, but this was _Mary_.

He held her stuffed dog closer to his chest. The other men had teased him when they saw him with it, happening upon him before he could tuck it away out of sight. Sargent Madison asked if was a gift from his fiancée; Matthew had said it was without thinking. If any of these men lived long enough to ever meet Lavinia, he prayed none of them would mention it. He didn't want to hurt her and explaining why he had lied would have meant explaining all of it with Mary... and Matthew was determined to not let his dalliance with Mary color his relationship with Lavinia.

 _Dalliance_... who was he fooling? Surely not himself. Mary was the first woman he had ever truly loved in that way, the woman he had been so confident was _the One_. There were times, even now, he felt maybe she was still...

He held her old toy to his nose, smelling traces of her perfume. Jasmine and vanilla, providing an even clearer image of her in his mind. Perhaps he looked like a small child, unable to sleep at night without teddy, but he didn't care.

Mary had taken great care with this toy. It almost looked brand new. Giving this to him was her way of demanding he come home, unscathed. Knowing she wanted him to return to Downton, whole and safe, meant more to him that words could ever hope to describe, even if was only a purely friendly sentiment.

Though he knew all too well dying on the front was a possibility, Matthew wanted to fulfill her wishes. Even if they could never be together the way he had wanted, he would never want to do anything to make her sad, to go against her wishes in any way. Matthew resolved to cling to life as best as he possibly could.

* * *

_I always want you._

Matthew couldn't get that phrase stuck out of his head. It was two in the morning and he couldn't sleep, haunted by her words.

 _She didn't mean it like that_.

Still, the phrase tortured him. Did she mean it?

_Don't you want me?_

_I always want you. Very much._

The quick way she had said it. The embarrassment that seemed to hang over her afterwards... her own strange appearance at his home... the fact she almost acted as though she were hiding something...

_She meant that she wanted you at dinner._

Still, Matthew couldn't help but wonder if it might have meant more... the possibility Mary wanted him, in any way, was a tantalizing one. He now looked forward to returning to Downton Abbey again, pleased they were now able to be cordial and had forgiven one another...

But there was no way they could go back to what they had once (almost) been. Mary had mentioned some man she was seeing in London and he was with Lavinia... and it would be dishonorable to leave Lavinia in the lurch, after he had turned her life upside down and introduced her to his family. Furthermore, Lavinia had never hurt him in any way, her words never caustic and wounding, never once playing games with him.

But he supposed it said something, that he could hardly think of Lavinia's sweet words and tearful goodbye, dwelling only of Mary and her words as if it was a riddle he was meant to solve.

—

His name was Richard Carlisle and Matthew despised him.

There was no personal reason behind it— though Matthew wished he had at least one. The only aspect about his character Matthew could find objection to were the gossip rags the man passed off as newspapers, though that seemed like a silly thing to say when Matthew had been shooting and killing men in France. There was, of course, his age, but Matthew doubted many young men would be left after this beastly war was through.

The reason he disliked Richard Carlisle so much was because he was the man Mary had replaced him with.

_How can you think that? She was never yours to begin with. She never accepted you..._

Still, Matthew couldn't note that she never laughed with him. Her smile wasn't as bright, her eyes glazed over instead of shining as they did when she was truly happy... Matthew didn't know whether he should derive satisfaction from that fact alone or feel sad, that Mary might be left with a man who didn't make her happy.

Matthew rolled over in his cot, almost with too much force. He hated feeling this way— that jealousy that he had no right to possess, that acidic feeling that burned deep with in him even now, the resentment directed at Carlisle...

 _You have Lavinia,_ he kept reminding himself, trying to think of her brilliant red hair and her sweet smiles... only it was always a matter of minutes before Mary's striking features replaced them every time.

 _He's not good enough for her._ It was what Matthew finally decided to tell himself, the reason he felt was least incriminating. If Mary with a better man, someone younger who could offer her more and didn't make his living airing out other people's sordid stories, then maybe he could approve.

But Matthew knew no man would ever be good enough for her in his eyes; not even himself, thanks to this godforsaken war. Once upon a time, when he was an innocent, he might have been able to convince himself the sheer power of his love was enough to overcome whatever deficiencies he had, but not now. Now he had killed, smiting someone's son, husband, and brother from the face of the Earth all because he was a German.

Nevertheless, even if it couldn't be him, Mary deserved far better. Someone who could make her laugh, at least, someone who could put a real smile on her face. If it couldn't be Matthew, he at least wanted her happy.

* * *

The last thing he recalled was a bang, then a sharp pain at the base of his spine, and William's weight crushing down on top of him...

"Mary," he murmured as he was jostled about, darkness seeming close to him. She wasn't here, he knew, he couldn't be, but he had a message for her. He was dying. "Please tell Mary—"

"Mary's not here," a gruff voice interrupted.

"Tell Mary I tried." He wanted so badly to stay alive, to do that one thing for her, but it was too late.

"Tell her yourself."

Then he was engulfed in darkness.

* * *

When he awoke, he was convinced it was a dream... or possibly in Heaven. The latter seemed more likely, given his faint memories and the fact she looked even more beautiful than she did in his hazy dreams. She couldn't possibly be here with him... "You're awake," Mary said, letting out a shuddery, relieved sigh. "Oh, thank God." Before Matthew could comprehend what was happening, he felt her lips pressed to his cheek. They were dry yet warm.

"What is this?" he mumbled, groggy and confused as she pulled away, blinking back tears. He determined this wasn't Heaven; if it was, she wouldn't be close to crying. "Where am I?"

"You're at the hospital. At Downton." Her had reached out, clasping his own. "You're home, Matthew. Just where you belong."

Hospital? He was injured... he supposed that explained some things... "What's happened? Where's William?" He mumbled.

"He's at another hospital. In Leeds" Mary told him and the twist of her lips told him she was hiding something. "We don't know what happened exactly, only there was some sort of explosion and you were both caught up in it."

Matthew blinked, fragmented memories of being thrown in the air in his mind. He felt very far away, tired and full of pain the longer he was conscious. "Have you been with me this whole time?" He asked without thinking.

"Only since you've been here." She rose her feet abruptly. "I really ought to fetch Dr. Clarkson. He'll be pleased to know you're awake." With another smile, Mary let go of his hand and walked away.

Matthew watched her go, still in disbelief that he was here and that this was real. He almost forgot about his other two questions— Why was she there, and why couldn't he feel his legs?

* * *

Lavinia's departure had been a tearful one. Explaining to her that there would be no children was a difficult task for Matthew to bear. He didn't blame Cousin Robert for not telling her, as it was a sensitive topic even at the best of times, but he really wished he could have been spared the indignity of telling her himself.

"She's better off in London," was the only thing he said when Mary informed him Lavinia had safelygot on board the first train that morning.

He had wept last night once he was certain he was alone, only for Sybil to find him. She had comforted him as best as he could, but Matthew could see no hopeful future ahead of him. The life of marriage and children he had always envisioned for himself was gone; as a young man, he had attracted his share of young women but he had always told himself he needed to devote time to his career first and then he could fall in love.

What a joke.

"If you say so," said Mary, evidently unconvinced. He wondered if she was asking for the sake of Lavinia or if she was more displeased with him.

He spotted a look in her eye and suddenly had a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Do you know why I sent her away?" he asked, worried she would say _Yes._ It was humiliating enough, with Lavinia and Robert knowing he would never be able to have a child or engage in the process of making one, but for Mary to know... that was its own form of torture. He harbored no delusions that she reciprocated his feelings, especially not now that he was battered and bruised, but now she must see him as a sexless, epicene figure, confined to a stupid wheelchair and a bed for the rest of his days...

She confirmed his fears with a, "I think so."

Well, there it was. She knew all about it then— that he would never be able to lie with a woman, never be able to take her to bed— _You weren't in any danger of such a thing when you were whole and well,_ he reminded himself bitterly. "Then you'll know I couldn't marry her. Not now. I couldn't marry any woman." _Not even you._ He supposed now he was grateful she had Carlisle... if she were married to him now, as he had so desperately wanted, she would be trapped to a life as a nursemaid. He supposed she was thinking herself lucky that she had never answered him.

"And if they should just want to be with you?" countered Mary, meeting his eyes. There was something different, something almost imploring. "On any terms?"

She couldn't be referring to herself. Lavinia, perhaps, but not her. Still, Matthew couldn't help but let himself be deceived for a moment. Mary giving up the possibility of children to be with, Mary laying next to him bed each night, Mary kissing him again and again... Suddenly, the reality of being confined to a wheelchair his whole life long seemed far less daunting with the possibility of her constant presence of his lifetime.

But there joyous imaginings were marred swiftly by the reality of the situation. Mary resenting him for never being able to give her a child. Mary slamming doors, Mary berating him for allowing her to make a fool of herself... Mary growing to hate him. Mary lonely and sad, all thanks to Matthew and his selfish desires.

He didn't believe she was foolish enough to even contemplate throwing her perfectly good future away, but he was determined to stamp it out if it was. "No one sane would want to be with me as I am now," Matthew told her with the utmost sincerity. "Including me."

The bleak future stared back at him, no wife, no children: simply an empty home and an earldom...

And then there would be Mary, married to Carlisle and he would be forced to watch her raise another man's children, all while wishing he could have at least ignored his pride and given her more time...

"Oh, God, I think I'm going to be sick," said Matthew, nauseated by the future ahead of him, of the past he had squandered and present that would never be all because of his impatience.

With a fluid movement, Mary reached for a bowl. Matthew was able to lurch far enough to vomit directly into it, eyes falling shut. A new type of shame overwhelmed him— he was at his absolute lowest, practically in Hell and Mary was forced to endure it alongside him. She must be sickened by him, wishing she had a bowl of her own...

Instead, Matthew her voice murmur, soft in his ear, "It's alright," as he continued to heave. She didn't sound disgusted by him at all— how was that possible? Her hand began rubbing between his shoulders, her voice soft and soothing. "It's perfectly alright."

When he was finished, Matthew collapsed back down on his pillows, allowing Mary the chance to put the bowl full of his sick away. He was astonished by how she could be wasting her time on him, especially when she could easily spend her time doing something far better than this. She reached for a small towel, wiping vomit off his lips without flinching, eyes trained on him with a softness he had never truly known her capable of.

A chuckle bubbled up deep within him, something he couldn't manage to keep down. Mary was startled by his apparent mirth. "What is it?"

"I was just thinking it seems such a short time ago since I turned you down, and now look at me." What fool he had been... by now, they could be married. He might have been a useless husband now, but he would have made love to her already... he might have even been able to give her several children by now. So much time had been wasted, time he could he come to truly know her, time not spent contriving reasons for go to London and meet a girl whose heart he would break simply to avoid crossing Mary's path... "Impotent, cripple, stinking of sick. What a reversal," he said, self deprecatingly. He had been too full of pride, too impatient... The sight of her crying was still as fresh as it had been that fateful day. How many times had that image plagued him, knowing he'd hurt her and left her, leaving that the last impression of him in her mind? "You have to admit, it's quite funny." _A complete joke_ , just as he was...

But Mary didn't find the humor in it. As he spoke, her face crumpled ever so slightly. Her shining brown eyes held nothing but pain as she gazed at him. "All I'll admit is that you're here and you've survived the war," she said seriously. "That's enough for now." She rose to her feet, carrying his bowl of sick with her.

God... he had hurt her again. How did he always manage it?

* * *

He wasn't sure how it had happened, but somehow they had settled into a domestic routine here at Downton. All three of the Crawley sisters went out of their way to help him adjust to life here, but especially Mary. She began seeing to everything, taking great care with each of her actions. She was oftentimes the first member of the family he saw in the mornings and usually the last one at nights.

It really wasn't proper, Matthew thought as she helped Bates settle him into bed. She had taken him for a walk— well, she had walked, he had sat in his wheelchair, letting her push him all over the estate— before returning him to his chambers when he began feeling tired. Nevertheless, he couldn't bring himself to tell her not to do it. Having her near him, at all times, was one of the bright spots of his dreary existence.

He knew some disapproved of their newfound closeness. Richard Carlisle, for one, cast Matthew suspicious glares whenever he happened to say anything complimentary about Mary. Cousin Cora obviously was not enthusiastic— which seemed rather ironic, considering she had been one of the most fervent supporters of their union in the past.

Matthew stopped himself from following that bitter thought much further. He shouldn't blame Cora, not when she only had her daughter's best interests in mind. She didn't realize how committed Matthew was to ensuring Mary, like Lavinia, wouldn't waste her life away on him. Mary deserved far better— she deserved to be someone's mother. Matthew already knew she would be splendid at it... He recalled how, shortly after realizing his love for her, he began envisioning what their children might be like.

Matthew let out a sigh. "Is something the matter?" asked Mary immediately, eyes scanning over him. "We didn't hurt you, did we?"

"No, of course not," he said, speaking as soon as he could to reassure her. The last thing he wanted to do was worry her. "I was lost in my thoughts. That's all."

Mind at ease, Mary brought up the heavy blanket up around him. "There. Is that all?" When he nodded, she smiled and said, "Well, if you know what to do if you change your mind," before gliding out of the room. Matthew stared after her retreating figure. Out of all the people on this earth to devote her attentions to, why had Mary chosen him?

It was a thought that bounced around in his head until Lavinia returned to Downton, slowly taking over the duties Mary had been fulfilling. It was Cousin Cora's doing, he knew, and he wanted to respect her for it, but instead resentment slowly creeped up, ebbing away and consuming him.

* * *

Perhaps it would be for the best, Matthew thought grimly as he stared up at the ceiling, if this fellow really was Patrick Crawley. Then there would be at least a promise of an heir...

And truth be told, it might be good to get away from Downton. Being so close to Mary and knowing he could never have her was torturous, even when he hadn't been injured, but now that he had lost all hope, it was especially painful. Lavinia was solidly back in his life, Richard Carlisle a fixture in hers.

Matthew realized that if this man's story was true, he would be going back to Manchester, just as he had intended after the garden party, before he knew there was a war.

Matthew blinked back tears. It seemed pointless now... When he had broken with Mary, he envisioned being able to return to his old life and build something new out of it. But now... What was there for him? He could go to work again, of course, but there was no real future for a man like him.

What had it all been for? He stared up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it. What was the point of any of it? Leaving Downton, going to the Front, meeting and falling in love with Lavinia, only to return to Downton and realize after all this time it was _still_ Mary...

Worst of all was that she didn't seem to want to accept this fellow as Patrick Crawley, almost bursting into tears at the idea of Matthew losing the inheritance and title. It made no sense to Matthew; shouldn't she be glad? Patrick had been her cousin, she had been engaged to the man. If she could accept Patrick when she could not accept Matthew, surely he was the better man by her estimation, was he not? Perhaps she could even break with Carlisle and marry Patrick Crawley and become Countess of Grantham, just as she planned.

But even now Matthew couldn't believe that. She had been angry, insistent it was impossible for him to be the real Patrick...

And the fact that she wanted Matthew to inherit was so peculiar, especially when she had resented him so much before. He wondered what could have possibly have changed her mind— back when he proposed, he had allowed himself to believe her gradual softening towards him was because of love, but obviously that wasn't true.

But now, after hearing her conviction, Matthew couldn't necessarily bring himself to think that a desire to be Countess was all it was. She must feel some sliver of affection towards him... they were certainly friends, at the very least... which was better than nothing, he supposed.

* * *

Cousin Violet's words played through his mind as he rested on his pillow. His lamp was still on, his eyes fixing themselves upon the shadows.

 _Mary's still in love with you._ How could it be possible? Yet even now he couldn't pretend he had seen those softer glances that she bestowed upon him when she thought no one was looking... or the fact she seemed less and less pleased with Sir Richard.

But if she loved him, really truly loved him, as Cousin Violet suggested, why hadn't she accepted him? If she loved him now, even when he had been lame, why hadn't he been enough all those years ago?

 _Still_ , Cousin Violet had said. _Still in love with you._ As if she had been in love with him for some time.

_When you spoke of marrying Lavinia, she looked like Juliet upon waking in the tomb._

He had avoided looking at Mary during the announcement for fear the mere sight of her would tempt him to change his mind... and it very well might have done, because every fiber of his being wanted Mary by his side. If it were at all possible, Matthew wished he could have been announcing his marriage to Mary, taken her hand in his, met her brown eyes and smiled warmly at her.

The realization that his paralyzation wasn't a permanent one had changed everything. In the brief moments after sinking back down into his chair after Lavinia had fled the room to fetch the family, Matthew had allowed himself a fantasy consisting of confessing to Mary how it had always been her, that he was willing to do anything possible to be hers...

But Matthew knew that if he were to attempt such a thing in actuality, he would be met with heartbreak yet again. Mary was engaged to Carlisle for a reason... and Lavinia had been so wonderful to him. Even though she wasn't Mary, she was a brilliant woman in her own right. Matthew had been amazed by her selflessness, her willingness to give up any possibility of a real life to help him. It almost seemed ungrateful not to reinstate their engagement... And it wasn't as if Mary had made any overtures to throw Carlisle over and be with him instead.

He chastised himself. _You never even allowed her the chance,_ he reminded himself, recalling her asking about her quietly asking him about someone wanting to be with him, " _on any terms_ ," or that time she had looked at him and said, " _I don't have to marry him, you know_ ," her eyes silently willing him to beg her not to. But Matthew, like Lavinia, had decided to be selfless and harshly dismissed her, trying to drive her away from him.

Was it possible? Did Mary really love him? Or was Cousin Violet merely seeing what she wanted to see? But then again, she wasn't known for her sentimentality and the first time around, love hadn't been the primary concern of the family, simply tidying up matters. She must truly believe it to say it.

But if she had loved him, why hadn't she answered him all those years ago? Did she simply not love him enough back then? Or was there something else...?

_What else could it be? And it's too late to change your mind now; you are marrying Lavinia._

Matthew sighed. Life had seemed so simple before he met Mary... but he wouldn't go back to that time, even if he could, if it meant forgetting her.

* * *

 _You're a damn fool,_ he told himself, sick to his stomach. Daylight was streaming in through his parted windows already and he still hadn't been able to sleep.

His fiancée was dead. Lavinia was gone.

And it was all his fault.

No— no, it wasn't just his. It was Mary's as well. Not intentionally, of course. She had no way of knowing the consequences to their actions... Not as he did.

He'd started up the gramophone, listening to one of his favorite songs. _Look for the Silver Lining,_ it was called, from a show that flopped. It was a shame, for it was such a lovely song.

And then she had appeared. Mary, looking radiant and eager to speak to him... and then they danced.

"Won't you need your stick?" She asked him.

"You are my stick," he'd answered, for it was true... in more ways than one. He knew that without her, he would have been swallowed up by despair eventually in those godless trenches or lost all will to carry on when he had been injured. She had been his light in the darkness.

And yet he was marrying another woman and she another man. How was that?

Somehow, their conversation had led to their failed relationship. "We were a show that flopped," she said, smiling, but he could tell it wasn't genuine. There was more than a tinge of sadness in her voice.

His eyes fell shut. He had been the one to make her feel this way. Regret burned in him like a fire. Ever since Cousin Violet had visited him and told him that Mary loved him then, still loved him now, it was as if Matthew had been able to see things clearly. Her lingering looks, the way she deflated anytime his wedding to Lavinia was mentioned, the fact she seemed so much lighter and freed when it was just the two of them. For the first time since breaking with her, Matthew allowed himself to believe it: she did love him.

If only he had waited. If only had just given her that time she asked for. If he had let her do things on her time, on her terms, maybe they wouldn't be in the situation they were now. Maybe it would be her that he would be marrying in a few days time instead of Lavinia. For a brief moment he allowed himself to picture it: Mary, in a luminous white dress, beautiful features hidden by a gossamer veil as she walked down an aisle to meet him. A lump formed in his throat.

"Oh, God, Mary," he whispered, unable to speak much louder. "I am so, so sorry. Do you know how sorry I am?"

"Don't be. It wasn't anyone's fault. If it was, it was mine." The bitterness in her voice was potent. It took all his self control not to laugh. It seemed he wasn't the only one full of regret for the way things had transpired. What a pair they were.

"You know, Cousin Violet came to me and told me to marry you," Matthew told her. He didn't want to say anything about love, uncertain if he could handle it if she laughed and made some remark about her Granny inventing stories to reunite them. This seemed the safest way to broach the topic, if they were going to speak of it.

Her breath hitched. He could hear the soft intake of breath, feel the contraction with the hand on her waist. "When was this?" She almost sounded apprehensive, not the cool, confident Mary he had known for so long. But Matthew accepted long ago their were facets of her still to be discovered. Mary was anything but simple.

"A while ago. When we knew I would walk again," he clarified. It was purposeful move, that he knew. Still, he couldn't bring himself to feel bitter or resent her for it. Given how helpless he felt at the time, he wouldn't have even considered it, not wanting to damn her a life as a nursemaid.

"Classic Granny," she said, sounding amused. There was pause before she asked, with hesitant curiosity, "What did you say?"

That lump in his throat seemed to grow bigger. He needed to speak the truth, owed her to be honest, but it was so hard— especially when all he wanted was _her_. "That I couldn't accept Lavinia's sacrifice of her life, her children, her future, and then give her the brush off when I was well again. Well, I couldn't, could I?"

"Of course not." Unaffected, pragmatic Mary had returned. She seemed so closed off from him. He wondered if her coolness, that aloofness that she had perfected, was a way to protect herself, the armor she wore each and everyday. He had seen that softer, more vulnerable Mary plenty of times... _His Mary._

At once, with a ferocity he didn't know he was capable of, Matthew knew he absolutely must tell her how he felt. Even if it was a mistake, she needed to know how he truly felt. If these were to be his last days as an unmarried man, she deserved to know the depth of his feelings. That she had meant more to him than mere words could hope to describe. That when all was said and done, it had always been her for him.

"However much I might want to." Those words startled him even. He knew he was teetering on a precipice, close to throwing all his morals that he had clung to into the fire, but _fuck it_ — this was Mary: the woman he loved, the woman he always would love.

She pulled away, just enough to meet his eyes. Matthew stared into those heavenly brown irises. "Absolutely not," she uttered breathlessly. He wasn't sure if she was warning him or agreeing with him.

It happened so quickly that Matthew wasn't certain who initiated but soon Mary's lips were on his. The world melted away and at once Matthew felt himself again, like the man he once been before the war. Her gloves fingers released his own, moving to his shoulder. He poured all of himself into the kiss. Could she tell how much he loved her? Did she know that no one had ever meant as much to him as she did?

It lasted forever. Earth could have burned to ash and he wouldn't have been any the wiser. He was consumed with it, the pent up tension of the last few years melted away. All that existed was her— his Mary, the woman he loved, the woman he would always love, until the last breath left his body—

But it had been interrupted by Lavinia's sweet voice.

And now she was dead.

That kiss had been the nail in her coffin. He was confident of it. She had seen him being untrue, believed herself unworthy of him, convinced that Mary would throw over Carlisle for him...

Her words haunted him: _Isn't it better this way?_

Matthew wasn't sure if Lavinia was right. The day of the funeral, Mary had sought him out. He had no idea what she might have said if it weren't for him cutting her down immediately. He wouldn't allow Lavinia to be right about this. He wouldn't let the thing that killed her manifest itself.

_We're cursed, you and I._

That was what he said to her. Perhaps it was harsh but Matthew couldn't offer her anything. Besides... she had Richard. She would well taken care of.

But when he watched them leave the cemetery together, Mary telling him that she " _wanted him to_ "... it felt like a dagger to his heart. A stupid part of him wanted to reach out and grab her to keep her by his side, apologize. He wanted to bury his face into her neck, breathe her in, and never let her go.

But the mound in front of dirt in front of him stopped him. He owed it to Lavinia to be strong, not selfish. Self hatred festered within him as he watched her receding figure next to Richard's.

When he arrived home he had collapsed on the floor, crying not only for losing Lavinia, not because the horrors of the war had come rushing back all at once, but knowing all hope he had with Mary was to be dashed forever. There would be no more second chances for them. The pain he felt was indescribable. He was going to be alone, he was going to watch Mary Mary that odious man, all of this was his fault...

Molesley has found him in that miserable state. He couldn't remember what the poor man had said, still trying to reign back his tears and regain a semblance of composure. Molesley managed to help him to his feet, undressing him like a child would their doll and then dressing him back up again in his pajamas.

"I'll have Mrs. Bird send up a tray," Molesley told him. "And I'll tell Mrs. Crawley you aren't well."

"Thank you," croaked Matthew. His throat was raw. Tears still leaked from the corners of his eyes. If he weren't so exhausted, he might have been humiliated that his valet had caught in such a state.

And that was where Matthew had been for the past eighteen hours. He couldn't bring himself to leave his room, to step out into the harsh, unforgiving world again. Mother would drag him out at some time; of that, he was confident. But for now...

He needed to be alone.

* * *

The closed behind him with a slam. He hadn't meant it to. He wasn't angry; he was simply surprised. Matthew staggered over to edge of his bed, finally allowing himself to stop putting on the act of composure.

It still didn't seem real. Mary and Kemal Pamuk...

He wasn't angry. He wasn't even jealous. He was just shocked. It had never crossed his mind that it was a possibility. He knew she had liked him very much, remembering those idle strains of jealousy and the words he exchanged with Evelyn Napier, whose feelings mirrored his. But that she had gone to bed with him...

Her words echoed still in his head, though they were drowned out by those little things he noticed... like that fear in her eyes as she confessed it to him, those moments where she seemed ready to break down into tears...

And that moment when she admitted, "I couldn't accept you without telling you first... but I couldn't bear to have you despise me."

Matthew wasn't even offended she had been worried. Women were always judged so much more harshly for these things. He remembered how it seemed like so many men on the front bought love from French women who were trying to make ends meet, but he had never been able to stomach the idea of doing so himself— not with Mary being the woman in his head and later with his engagement to Lavinia— but he never begrudged the men who did. They were desperate and broken and longing for love. Scarcely anyone there minded. It was an urge most everybody had.

But Mary would have been ruined if this were to be exposed... and that was what Sir Richard was threatening to do, if she didn't bend to his will and marry him. That was the only part of Mary's story that sickened him. He hated the idea of her being trapped, especially when every time she was around him she seemed so despondent. His heart had broken when, after he reassured her that she didn't need to marry Carlisle, and she had miserably insisted she did.

The relief he had felt upon learning she was planning to throw that man over was palpable. As nasty as he was sure the press would be, a few years of scandal was preferable to decades of misery. It was unfortunate that she would need to leave...

But what if she didn't?

He thought hard about the words his mother had spoken to him, about not letting his guilt run his life any longer. He thought about how Mary had let it slip that the only reason she hadn't accepted him was because of the whole dealing with Pamuk. He thought of how Cousin Violet had gone to his room that night to tell him how Mary loved him and implore him to marry her.

A part of him worried he was unworthy. He had put her through hell. Her heart had been broken because of him and his own heart smashed because of her perceived lack of love. Could they put them back together? Or was this just another opportunity to hurt one another again?

But Matthew realized now that he had been right all along: it was her. Mary was the One for him. He wanted her and he was fairly confident she wanted him as well... and maybe making her the Countess of Grantham one day would make up for all his past blunders.

The past few years had been messy and tortured and at times agonizing. Ever since he had met her, life had become invariably more complex. But now, as he toed off his shoes, he realized that he couldn't regret a moment. Not now that it led to this opportunity, to this chance to make it right.

He was going to ask her to marry him.

* * *

It had taken all of his effort not to spoil the surprise to Mother or Molesley. He and Mary had agreed to wait and tell the family at the next dinner so no one felt slighted about not being the first to know.

The second the door closed behind Molesley, Matthew allowed himself to smile widely. _Engaged._ He was engaged to perhaps the most wonderful woman to ever graced the Earth. As much as he agreed that waiting was best, he longed to scream it from the rooftops that Lady Mary Josephine Crawley was going to be his wife.

She had made him bend down on one knee and everything and he was pleased to oblige her, if only to finally hear her say _Yes._ The snowfall had chilled them both but Matthew hadn't felt any of it when they leaned in to share a kiss. His happiness tonight was unparalleled by anything; he was certain no man on Earth could possibly be more happy than he was tonight.

When Matthew tucked himself into his bed, he knew it would be a sleepless night. He had never felt more alive than he did right now. He faced the empty space beside him, knowing it was only a matter of time before it was to be a thing of his past. He closed his eyes, hoping he could calm himself enough to fall asleep and dream of his future wife... His Mary.


End file.
